


The Littlest Detective

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babies, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock child, M/M, No mpreg, adorable babies acting like their daddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Benjamin Watson-Holmes exhibits some early powers of deduction. Or at least, looking at books. Based on a prompt from the kinkmeme: Sherlock's kid acts like him in the most adorable ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Littlest Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Just to preface this: In my headcanon, when Sherlock and John were ready to have a child, they had Harry Watson as a surrogate so that their child would have traits/features from both of their families. Harry, being a recovering alcoholic and picking up the pieces of her life, was reluctant to agree, so the Holmes estate paid her very well for being a surrogate to help keep her clean during the pregnancy and help her get her life back together.

John Watson wasn’t quite sure when it had begun. He  _was_  fairly positive, however, that it happened right under his own nose, during the midday hours when he was reluctantly away from home. How he had missed it while at home he could only guess, but the first time he witnessed it, he was completely floored.  
  
In retrospect, it wasn’t that shocking when his 18-month-old son began developing an interest in discovering the world around him. What was surprising was the way in which little Benjamin explored.  
  
It was a rare Saturday where neither John nor Sherlock Holmes, his partner of several years, had much of anything to do. Sherlock had spent his days diligently researching something for a scholarly article he’d been asked to write, and John didn’t have to be on-call for any medical emergencies at the surgery that day.  
  
Which meant John found himself sitting cross-legged on the lush carpet of their flat, back to the sofa, mug beside him, reading the morning paper as Benjamin played at his feet.  
  
“Sherlock,” John called into the kitchen, where Sherlock sounded as if he were tossing around every pot and pan they owned. “Sherlock, are you preparing Ben’s breakfast? Or are you re-arranging the cabinets?” The toddler was sitting with his toes curled into the carpet, sans clothing, with only a nappy on, fiddling with a small, odd-shaped toy. John lowered the paper to his lap and watched with a fond smile as Ben looked up at him with almond-shaped hazel eyes, looking pleased with himself.  
  
“Sherlock?” John called again, as Ben began blowing raspberries. “Are you alright in there?”  
  
“Everything’s fine!” Sherlock responded, striding out of the kitchen with a bottle and a towel. John furrowed his brow at Sherlock as he fielded a sheepish smile down at their son, who immediately brightened as Sherlock approached.   
  
“Hello,” Sherlock said to the toddler who was suddenly curled around his ankles. “You’ve quite adapted to this routine.” Ben cooed in response. Sherlock picked the baby up and carried him across the room, away from John, who frowned. The pair then sat in front of Sherlock’s chair, Sherlock with his books and his laptop, Ben with his bottle, sitting between Sherlock’s legs, leaning against his left thigh. He made a few shrieking giggles before Sherlock took the bottle and stuck it into his mouth. He then opened a book, reaching around Ben as best he could, and began highlighting.  
  
“Is this… what you do every day?” John asked, wondering just how long it’d been since he was able to see Sherlock’s stay-at-home-daddy bit. Sherlock glanced up through graying curls and gave a small smile.  
  
“Lately,” he explained simply. “Normally you aren’t here to supervise from over there, so I keep him here.” Sherlock gestured to Ben who continued to happily suck from his bottle as if no one else were around.   
  
“Harry called yesterday and asked me to take photos of him in his daily routine,” John said as Sherlock went back to his book. “I told her that this was the first lull in cases since his birth, so maybe I’d actually get some photos.”  
  
“By all means,” Sherlock suggested. “It’s not as if you haven’t already shown every single photo on your phone to everyone at the surgery anyway, I’m sure you need some fresh material for the masses.” John frowned, and Ben burped. It was turning into (what John assumed to be) a typical day for the Watson-Holmes family.  
  
It wasn’t for a bit longer when Sherlock rose from his position on the floor to gather a book from the top shelf that John saw it happen. Ben had moved from Sherlock’s lap to a small pile of books about the Ebola virus, and was moving them from one part of the carpet to the other. As soon as Sherlock jumped to his feet and climbed the chair to reach the top shelf, John watched as Ben immediately turned his gaze to Sherlock, watching intently in the way that children do.

“What is it, Ben?” John asked gently, but Ben merely ignored him and continued to monitor Sherlock’s every move. John pursed his lips together and decided to see what Ben would do next.  
  
With a struggle the child pushed himself to his shaky feet, and while still staring at Sherlock, took the few steps to his corner of the room, where his toy bin stood beside a small shelf that held all his storybooks. He carefully considered each book, and then settled on one, pulling it from the little white shelf. Sherlock was still deciding on books on the top shelf (a series of volumes on nineteenth century steroid use) when Ben sat back down on the floor, opened the book, and began leafing through it.   
  
After turning every page, he held the book up in his hands, glancing once more at Sherlock, and then put the book down in favor of a coloring book. He opened it to the first page, took a crayon, and began drawing on the page, with complete disregard to the image he was supposed to be coloring in.  
  
Sherlock had joined the group on the floor once more, hurriedly typing something on his laptop. The only voices were the few words the wind brought up from outside.   
  
“Sherlock,” John said, reaching with his foot to nudge Sherlock’s, “is… is that what you were talking about before? With Ben’s coloring?” Sherlock glanced up, raising his eyebrows and turning to their son, who was still concentrating on his page. He seemed to be dragging the crayon across the page in an orderly fashion, staring intently downwards. He glanced up at Sherlock once more, as if looking for some sort of approval, and noticed Sherlock watching him. He made an inquisitive sound, and Sherlock nodded to the young child. Ben smiled and continued drawing the lines across the page.  
  
“This is precisely it,” Sherlock said, pushing his laptop aside and watching with interest. Over the past few weeks, when John returned home, Sherlock had shared this bizarre new style of coloring, and showed John the coloring book. Ben had begun tearing pages out and stashing them away, where they had yet to locate them around the flat.  
  
“Must be a… developmental thing?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged. His partner continued to watch Ben closely, narrowing his eyes in curiosity.   
  
Ben continued to turn each page of the book, looking up at Sherlock again. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and rounded his eyes, trying to look less intimidating. It’d been a while since Ben reacted poorly to Sherlock’s expressions, but it was always good to practice for the detective.  
  
Finally, Ben seemed satisfied, and he stood, wobbling towards the sofa. John put the paper down and watched as Ben walked past him to the edge of the sofa, where a small stack of notebooks lay. The notebook on top was the one John used to take notes on Sherlock’s cases, much in the same way Sherlock stored all the information in that great brain of his, although he hadn’t used it as of late. Ben took the notebook, opened it randomly, and stuffed the page inside, closing the notebook. He then walked over to a quizzical John, put the notebook on his leg, and plopped onto the carpet beside him, putting his fingers in his mouth and staring up.  
  
“Gah!” Ben explained happily. John looked towards Sherlock, who was now sitting in a cross-legged fashion, studying Ben’s movements.  
  
Ben looked from one father to the other and shrieked with pleasure, kicking at the notebook. John picked it up and leafed through it, finding the other missing coloring book pages, all colored in a similar way.

“What…. Thank you, Benjamin,” John said, smiling brightly. Ben hit his hands to the carpet and blew another raspberry before looking longingly at his abandoned bottle.   
  
“Sherlock, can you—” John said, gesturing to the bottle. Sherlock retrieved it and brought it over, sitting on the floor in front of John. Ben happily stood and climbed into Sherlock’s lap, where he leaned back against his stomach and accepted Sherlock’s offer.  
  
“Well, this is… interesting,” John said, glancing over at the abandoned book.   
  
“I’ve never seen him do that,” Sherlock assured John. “But I’ve only observed the coloring, not what happens when he’s done. I believe he thinks he’s helping us,” Sherlock continued, supporting the baby by his stomach. He ran one hand absently through the mottled black curls Benjamin inherited. Ben glanced up, still sucking on his bottle, and closed his eyes.   
  
“What do you mean, helping?” John inquired. Sherlock nodded over towards the abandoned storybooks.  
  
“Think about it, John. He gathers the books, ‘reads’ them, then—those lines are his ‘notes’ and then he gives the notes to you. How many times has he seen that happen between us?” Sherlock asked excitedly. “He’s learning how to do what we do.” John looked at the notebook.  
  
“I don’t think he’s ever seen me use that notebook in that way,” John said. “I haven’t used it in a long time, not since the iPad.”  
  
“He knows, clearly, the importance it represents,” Sherlock insisted. “He sees me do this day in and day out, when he’s not with Mrs. Hudson.” Benjamin then gave a hiccup, dropped his bottle, and wiggled out of Sherlock’s grasp into John’s lap. He sat on John’s knees with his feet dangling over Sherlock’s, staring up at Sherlock.  
  
“He… is,” John agreed. “He’s certainly learning something from this.” It was John’s turn to stroke his son’s head, and he turned to look up at him with familiar eyes.   
  
“He looks just like my dad when he does this,” John commented, “and, well, Harry looks a lot like my dad. So I guess it makes sense.”  
  
“He’s got some you in there as well,” Sherlock commented, leaning back on the palms of his hands. “Look at the way he observes everything around him.”  
  
“He’s a baby,” John said with a half-smile.  
  
“He’s very intelligent,” Sherlock commented. “He’s picked up on patterns of deduction and study that he doesn’t even realize are valuable.” John reached over and picked up the piece of paper that Benjamin had recently put into his notebook, and studied it closely. Benjamin looked up at John, eyes wide and excited.  
  
“You’ve done some good work here, Ben,” John said, leaning down and kissing his forehead. Ben giggled and curled his toes, sliding backwards into the gap in John’s legs. “You’ll be an excellent detective yourself one day.” John glanced up and saw Sherlock watching Ben with an expression that wasn’t unfamiliar yet was completely new; the right corner of his lips were tilted up and his gaze was… soft, somehow. He had leaned forward, offering his hand to Ben’s little fingers.  
  
“C’mere,” John murmured, and Sherlock leaned in for a peck. It was longer than he expected and Ben, annoyed with the lack of attention on him, reached for John’s chin and made an exclamation.  
  
“I’m sorry, Ben,” John apologized after leaning away from his husband. He leaned down and gave Ben another kiss to his forehead, who greatly enjoyed it. Ben then bounded up and ran across the room, falling in front of his bookshelf and pulling out another book, propping it up against the shelf and sitting right in front of it, staring intently.  
  
“He’s researching another case it seems,” John said, and Sherlock chuckled. Sherlock stood, dressing gown hanging by his feet, and he crouched behind Ben, grapping the little boy and lifting him into the air with a happy cry. Ben was now leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder, his hands in his hair, grinning a semi-toothed grin at John, who held up his phone just in time to snap a photo.

“That should satisfy Harry,” John proclaimed, and Sherlock turned on his heel.  
  
“I believe neither of us have had our breakfasts,” Sherlock announced, Ben perched in his upper arms. “Ben has monopolized us.”  
  
“As it should be,” John couldn’t help but say. Sherlock grinned and crossed the room, pulling John reluctantly to his feet.   
  
“I haven’t mastered anything aside from what can be put in a bottle in months,” Sherlock said, “so I’d be grateful if you could prepare something.”  
  
“If I didn’t make such massive dinners you’d never eat, would you?” John joked, and Ben tugged Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock winced and shook his head. “How did I end up with two children,” John wondered, and shoved both Sherlock and Ben into the kitchen, leaving all three of their research projects behind in the living room of 221B.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while surrounded by toddlers at the Detroit International Airport waiting for my flight (I'd taken the offer of a later flight in exchange for credit) and the children inspired me.


End file.
